


Infinite Variety

by NyxEtoile



Series: Spider's Web [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Boredom, Established Relationship, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV OC, Revenge Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile
Summary: “My mind rebels at stagnation."-Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of FourA sequel toNearly All that is Undetected
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers
Series: Spider's Web [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1979992
Comments: 78
Kudos: 149





	1. My Mind Rebels at Stagnation

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic in February 2018 and I finished it yesterday (10/19/20). Never give up on your dreams kids.
> 
> The main plot of this was plotted out when I began it. But I think this year's lockdown gave me unique perspective on the boredom and ennui Amanda is feeling while trying to be "good" which is what propelled me to work on it and eventually finish. It was really good to have something spark my interest and to actually finish something. The hardest thing for me these last few months has been the lack of content, especially from the MCU. I share Amanda's boredom in the face of no novel content and that is a hard hole to dig out of, when you're trying to be creative.
> 
> Title is taken from a Sherlock Holmes quote stolen from Shakespeare. The chapter titles are all Holmes quotes.

Kierkegaard said that "Boredom is the root of all evil - the despairing refusal to be oneself." Amanda Newbury, who was once been known as The Doctor, in hushed tones of frightened reverence, was beginning to understand what he meant.

She had been working for Stark Enterprises' biomedical division for almost six months now. In the beginning, it had been interesting enough. Building a business from the ground up usually was. Problems that needed to be solved, logistics that needed to be sorted out. Administration wasn't really her forte, but she was good at solving problems. The fact she had to solve them through legal, transparent means had just added to the challenge.

But now the division was up and running. She had good people in charge of the various projects running. She had her own lab where she occasionally tinkered with things. It should have been fun. Using a part of her brain that had been long left stagnant. And for a brief time it was. But life had a tendency to settle into patterns, especially a life as well organized as Amanda's. And while she was very good at _seeing_ patterns, she found living one. . . rather dull.

James often asked her if she was happy and she always assured him she was, though she thought sometimes she didn't really understand the question. Happiness was an emotion, not a state of being. She could feel emotions, of course, enough to recognize their presence. And she was, at times, quite happy. But one was not continually happy. Brushing your teeth, taking a shit, riding the elevator, none of these made a person happy. Most of her life, she'd discovered, was spent in a state of vague boredom, until the next interesting thing came along.

When she'd been running a criminal empire, there had always been a new interesting thing. A plan to arrange, a market to swing. It had at times required patience and precision, the setting up of dozens of dominos to be knocked down in _just_ the right way. But it had always had an end, a goal. And then it would be time for the next thing. Now there was no next thing, no end. Just the same day, more or less, repeated on endlessly.

She couldn't remember if this monotony had effected her before she was enhanced. It was almost impossible to say. Being a captive of Hydra had been exciting, in its own way. Before that she'd been in school and training to be a doctor, which had meant actively learning and trying new things. So, perhaps this was just a product of this stage of life. Perhaps everyone went through this, to one degree or another, and it was up to her to find ways of entertaining herself. To break up the boredom.

"You know those files are confidential."

Amanda glanced up briefly at Sharon Carter, who was standing at the other end of the couch, hands on hips, glaring at her. She had moved in with Steve in the fall. Originally, the plan had been for her to move in and for James to move down to the second floor apartment that Sam used, as he was planning on moving in with his boyfriend in Harlem. But, they had gotten into an ugly fight about something Amanda hadn't bothered committing to memory and he'd stayed put, but Sharon had already given notice at her apartment and no one wanted to kick anyone out, so Sam had stayed where he was, James had stayed where _he_ was and Sharon had moved in.

This was all around the same time Amanda had started spending quite a lot of time at the brownstone as well. She had a penthouse in Manhattan that she occasionally suggested she and James move into. But he wanted to stay near Steve and she wanted him to be happy, so the bizarre living arrangements continued. It was likely they would reevaluate when Steve proposed, but that was still on the horizon. (Amanda had April in the betting pool with James, Sam, and Stark.)

Personally, Amanda found sharing living quarters with a CIA agent hilarious. She was unsure if Sharon felt the same.

"If you didn't want people to look at them, you shouldn't have left them lying around," she replied, looking back at the file she was reading.

"They were in folders. In my laptop bag. Which was closed."

"The zipper was open," Amanda said, pointing at the bag idly.

Sharon sighed deeply and continued to stand there, as if her disapproving presence would eventually cause Amanda to grow shame. Instead, she continued paging through the file, skimming the information.

"You know your suspect's mother is probably lying," she finally said, glancing up at her.

A line appeared between her brows. "The dotty retiree on Long Island?"

"Mmhmm."

"We interviewed her three times. She didn't know anything about her son's activities. Or even that he had domestic terrorist ties."

"Yes, I read her interviews." She flipped back to the beginning of the file. "She uses the same words in each one. Same phrasing, usually in the same order. A streamlined tale with no variations. Did you know there have been conclusive studies that indicate liars use less words than truth tellers?" Sharon's brows raised in what appeared to be interest, so she continued. "Truth tellers add to their tales, they remember things later, forget other things. A liar crafts his story and tells it efficiently, in the least amount of words. They also tend to use words that evoke sense memory, because they're not relying on real memories. They paint a picture for their audience to try to make it real."

"That's not enough to get a warrant," Sharon said cautiously.

"No, but this is." Amanda pulled out a small stack of pictures from the back of the file. "There was a burn on the carpet in her basement."

Sharon sat next to her on the couch. "She said she dropped an iron."

"I doubt that woman has ironed anything in twenty years. That's a chemical burn. Notice the discoloration at the edges? Also, the carpet pile is eaten away, not melted, the way it would be if heat had been applied. No, someone spilled a volatile chemical there." She looked at Sharon. "The bomb had a rather potent accelerant, didn't it?"

She could see Sharon mulling it over. "The carpet's been walked on, vacuumed. Probably cleaned up when it spilled. But the padding underneath-" She stood abruptly. "I'm going to make a call."

Amanda neatly tucked the file back together, then went to join James in the kitchen where he was cooking.

"Did I hear you using your powers for good?" he asked and she stepped up behind him and slid her arms around him.

"I like puzzles," she said, resting her head on the back of his shoulder. "Though it's more fun plotting crimes than solving them."

He patted her hand. "I wouldn't tell Sharon that."

"She'd probably agree with me if she tried it." He laughed, and she felt it rumble in his chest as much heard it. She kissed the back of his neck. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Set the table?"

She gave him a little squeeze and stepped away to get plates and silverware. She knew he enjoyed these moments of simple domesticity. There had been a time when he'd been sure she would never fully be a part of his life. She still didn't feel entirely like she belonged in this cozy little family. Nor was she entirely sure Sharon wouldn't arrest her if given the chance. But she tried to enjoy the little moments with him.

Steve and Sharon joined them for dinner, Sharon abuzz with the breakthrough in the bombing case. Apparently the warrant had gone through and she and her team would be raiding the mother's house in the morning. Conversation swirled mostly around that and the commissions Steve and James were working on. James was thinking of hiring more help at the store, so he could focus full time on his building. Amanda suspected eventually he'd need an assistant or apprentice for the building as well, but for now he liked keeping it to himself.

She rarely spoke of her job. Most of it was boring, the rest of it was confidential. Generally, she was content to listen and absorb. She was good at that.

"Are you all right?" James asked her later that night, as they were getting ready for bed.

The question surprised her, though as she turned to look at him she realized she'd been staring out the window for several moments. "Why do you ask?"

He made a face, indicating he’d noticed she'd dodged the question rather than answering it. "You've seemed sad lately."

Emotions were hard for her. She felt them, she wasn't an automaton. But they were oddly distant. Detached. For the most part she could ignore them in the interest of focusing on more logical reasoning. Sometimes it meant she missed nuance in other people. Sometimes it meant she wasn't entirely in touch with what she was feeling. Still, she didn't think she was sad.

"I'm bored," she told him. She hadn't wanted to tell him, didn't want him to worry about her. But she prided herself on never lying to him. On holding her relationship with him to a different standard than her other interactions.

"Bored? You mean at work or-"

"At work. At home. Just. . . bored. Each day is the same as the last." She walked to the dresser and pulled out pajamas. "I find entertainments were I can, like helping Sharon with her case. But there's a certain. . . ennui to my day to day life."

He watched as she slipped into the silk tank and pants and joined him in bed. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Is there anything I can do?"

She shook her head, carefully folding back some of the comforter just to have something to do with her hands. "I don't think so. I'm just adjusting to my new life. It takes time."

He stroked her hair gently, tucking it behind her ear. "I don't want you to be unhappy."

"I'm content," she assured him, leaning into his touch. "I have good moments and bad ones. The good outnumber the bad." She turned her head to meet his gaze. "That's all anyone can hope for, isn't it?"

"I think so." Leaning in, he kissed her. "If there's anything I can do to increase the number of good moments, let me know."

"Well. I can think of a way to make this _particular_ moment very good."

Grinning, he pressed a kiss to her jaw.

The next morning, Sharon and her team raided a small house in Long Island, pulling up the carpet to check for chemical residue and bringing their suspect's mother into headquarters for interrogation. Once the kid gloves were off, the woman told them what they needed to know. Two days later they had the results from the carpet, and the suspect in custody. He was already offering to hand over his co-conspirators in the interest of a more lenient sentence.

Sharon was all but giddy when she got home - later than normal, because she’d had a mountain of paperwork to do - with a bottle of good wine and a box of doughnuts from the latest trendy bakery. Someday New York would stop randomly getting obsessed with a new food every year, but it was not this year. “Three months,” Sharon said, popping the wine open while Steve got the glasses down from the cupboard. “Three months I’ve been working on this case, trying to find a chink in the story. And now we have a page of names and leads to follow.”

“Congratulations, honey,” Steve said, pausing to kiss her cheek as he lined the wine glasses up on the table.

“I owe you,” she said and it took Amanda a moment to realize she was talking to her.

Looking up from inspecting the doughnuts, Amanda said, “It was nothing. I enjoyed the opportunity to solve a puzzle.”

Sharon studied her a moment. “Why don’t we go out to dinner? Just the two of us.”

Amanda was amused to note the two men froze in place exchanging panicked glances. “It’s not necessary,” she told Sharon. Though the boys’ reactions made her actually want to.

“I know. But we should still go out. We’ve been living together for a couple months now, and I barely know anything about you.”

James cleared his throat and Steve reached for the wine bottle. “Why don’t we-“

“Are you talking about finding out my middle name or a full confessions of felonies planned?” Amanda asked.

“We can start with middle name and see where the night goes.”

Amanda grinned. “It’s a date.” And whatever awkward small talk she would have to put up with during the meal would be worth it given the looks on James and Steve’s faces.

“Are you sure you want to go to dinner with Sharon? You don’t have to. Everyone will understand.”

Amanda smirked down at her knitting while James puttered about getting ready for bed. “I can’t tell from your tone if you’re worried about her arresting me or me corrupting her.”

“It varies from moment to moment.”

“Maybe we’ll just get drunk and giggle about boys.”

He poked his head out of the bathroom. “You can’t get drunk and I’m equally certain you can’t giggle.”

Now she did glance up. “Sharon is your best friend’s girlfriend, soon to be fiancee in April-“

“July. He’s waiting for the fireworks.”

“No man waits that long with the ring in his pocket.”

“Your money is mine, Newbury.”

He ducked back into the bathroom and she focused on her knitting again. “I was saying. I’m in forced proximity with Sharon and that shows no signs of lessening. Steve and I seem to have reached some sort of peace based on our mutual love of you. I’d like to do the same with Sharon, if I can.”

“So you actually are trying to be friends?”

“I’d settle for reluctant allies, but anything is possible.”

James sauntered out of the bathroom wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms and she was once again distracted from her knitting. It had taken him a long time to get comfortable enough to walk around shirtless. He would only do it in front of her and very occasionally Steve. Once Sharon had moved in he never left their room without one.

Amanda had long since stopped seeing his scars and the ugly transition of flesh to metal. She had seem him with fresh wounds, had stitched him up. Had seen him broken and bruised. And he had seen her die. Physically, at least, there were no secrets between them. And she might have trouble expressing or acknowledging her emotions, but he could never doubt she found him utterly, devastatingly attractive.

He seemed to sense her train of thought because he stopped by her side of the bed and kissed her.

“Was that a reward for being nice?” she murmured, letting him take her needles and yarn away.

He put a knee on the bed, then swung his leg over so he straddled her, caging her between his arms and legs. “I need a reason to kiss you?”

“No,” she said, winding her arms around his neck. “No reason required.”

*

Two days later, Amanda left work and took a cab to meet Sharon at a trendy new tapas bar in the Village. She beat Sharon there, and waved around a couple of fifties to get them a good table, even with the Friday night crowd. When Sharon arrived Amanda already had a jug of Sangria and a couple of plates of food on the way.

“I hope you don’t mind I got us started.”

Sharon smiled, in that honest, charming way she had. It had taken Amanda a long time to determine that that particular smile was a real one and not an affectation. Sharon’s fake smile was similar, but her eyes didn’t crinkle and her cheeks didn’t move as much.

“Not at all,” Sharon said, shrugging out of her coat and sitting across from her. “I’m sorry I ran late, we’re still going over all the information our bomber gave us.”

“Will you be able to make any arrests?” Amanda asked, sipping her wine.

Sharon poured herself a glass. “We’re gonna start with information gathering. Stakeouts, wire taps, maybe an undercover agent or two. As long as there’s no imminent threat we want to get as much evidence as we can.”

“You know, if you gave me some names I might be able to help. . .”

“And I would have a very hard time explaining how I got whatever information you passed me without outing you.”

Amanda smiled. “So you do care.”

“Nah, I’d just get in deep shit if people found out I’d been living with you this long and not turned you in.”

She _liked_ Sharon, almost despite herself. In another life they could have been good friends. Or maybe partners in crime.

"Why did you help me?" she asked after they'd plowed through their first glasses of wine and ordered their second round of tapas plates.

Amanda thought about how to answer, then decided to just be honest. "I was bored. I'm bored. . . often lately."

Unexpectedly, Sharon looked sympathetic. "Steve said your brain, like, works faster than most people's?"

She nodded. "The serum accentuates what's there. Personality traits as well as physical ones. I know he has an essentially eidetic memory now. James can do elaborate mathematics in his head. I was a successful researcher - brilliant enough for Hydra to kidnap me - taking the serum turned all of that up to eleven. It made me a good mastermind. It seemed to make me a decent investigator. But it also means that without novel input I find myself somewhat at loose ends."

"Your work with Stark isn't engaging?"

Amanda lifted a shoulder. "It can be. I do tinker here and there. But I have no desire to recreate the serum, and I've already passed on the relevant information to our own research team. Otherwise, I don't have any thing to aim my focus at."

Sharon sipped her wine thoughtfully. "I can appreciate that. I've worked on desk and research duty and it can be really stifling, especially if you're used to field work."

It wasn't an exact parallel, she supposed, but Amanda appreciated the effort in trying to understand. "It's reassuring other people feel the same. Is it something you get used to?"

"Some people probably do. People get hobbies to distract them. Some people job hop in the interest of keeping things interesting." She topped her glass off from the sangria pitcher again. "If you want it to get better, you're the one who has to do something about it."

It was good advice. The sort of advice she'd expect from Sharon. Amanda stole the last bite of shrimp ceviche, chewing thoughtfully. "I promised James I would walk the straight and narrow. And I have, since I started working for Stark. But some days it's very hard."

"Well," Sharon said slowly, probably wondering how much she should worry about that. "You can help me solve crimes any day."

That was a departure from what she'd been saying the other day, but clearly Sharon was in a good mood and trying to be supportive. So, in the interest of getting along, Amanda lifted her glass in agreement. "It would be my pleasure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is what can you make people believe you have done.”   
> ― Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet

All things considered, it was a very pleasant night out, one that tickled long forgotten memories of similar girl's nights out when Amanda was in school. Those friends were a lifetime ago, in more ways than one, and the idea she might be able to rekindle that in some way with Sharon seemed foreign but. . . nice.

It was something new, which was something she'd been desperately searching for. It might not be the new purpose in life she'd been hoping for, but it was something. Something she hadn't thought to look for. Surprises were vanishingly rare for her and so she decided to appreciate this one as much as possible.

They shared a cab back home, talking about old boyfriends and stupid breakups - a shockingly banal, yet entertaining topic of conversation. A few blocks from the brownstone, an acrid smell struck Amanda's nose and she stopped in mid sentence, trying to place it. Burning wood. Melting plastic. Wiring. Varnish.

"Stop," she said, urgently enough the driver hit the brakes without question. Sharon was looking at her like she was crazy, but Amanda was already pushing the door open and running.

When she turned the corner, she was greeted with a block's worth of fire trucks and police cars, spinning red and blue lights blinding when they turned to face her. At the end of the block was their brownstone, stained with soot and still shrouded in smoke.

"Oh, my God," Sharon said softly, reaching her side.

"Do you have your CIA badge?" Amanda asked her.

"In my wallet."

"Good, pull it out." Without looking to see if she had, Amanda started for the building.

They were stopped before they could reach it, of course. Two policemen stepped in front of them and it was only Sharon whipping out her badge and demanding to know what was going on that saved them from being thrown across the street.

"This isn't a CIA matter," one of the uniforms said, sounding more confused than confrontational.

"I own that building," Amanda said. "She has a law enforcement badge. Don't start sorting out jurisdiction and tell us what's going on."

"Fire is still putting it out," the other cop said. He was older and was standing in a more relaxed posture, expression curious. "But it looks like it started in the first floor back stairway, heading down to the basement. I'm not an arson expert, but I'm not seeing an accidental wiring issue here."

"Was anyone hurt?" Sharon asked.

"The guy in the second floor apartment called it in, he got out fine. There was someone in the basement who got hit, he went to the hospital."

Sharon sucked in a breath. "And the third floor apartment?"

The officer shook his head. "Empty, far as I know."

Sharon stepped away to make a call, but Amanda had already gone through the likely scenarios. Most likely Steve had decided to take advantage of the girlfriend-free evening and run errands or something. He'd been running low on paints and his favorite art shop was a hassle to get to, so he only went when he had time to kill. He would have invited James, but he had a backlog of furniture to work on. He really needed to hire an assistant but he was so picky about his furniture he couldn't find anyone who was good enough to help. She sympathized but there was only so much one man could do.

"Oh, Steve, thank God," Sharon said behind her, voice shaking. "There's been an accident-"

"What hospital did they take the injured man to?" Amanda asked the officers. Her voice, she noted distantly, was cool and calm. As if she was discussing the weather with the two men. Already she could feel ice flowing through her, emotion draining from her. Emotion would not help her now, so she was discarding it.

"St. Bede's," the younger one said, finally being useful. "It's just a few blocks away."

"I know it," she replied. "Thank you." She held out her card to the older one. "Please have someone call me when they have an idea of what caused the fire." The man nodded and she turned to grab Sharon's arm and haul her back down the block.

"What-"

"Tell Steve to meet us at Sr. Bede's. It's where James and I assume Sam are."

The cab ride was quiet and tense. Sharon clearly wanted to offer some words of comfort, but as they had no idea what, exactly, Amanda needed to be comforted for, it was a losing proposition. Meaningless words of comfort wouldn't help her much anyway. She didn't believe they all went to a better place when they died and she likely knew more about mortal and disfiguring wounds than whatever ER doctor was currently working on James. There was no reassuring her that everything would be fine. Sometimes - perhaps most times - things were very much not all right.

St. Bede's ER was as crowded and hectic as any public ER. Amanda used the combined force of Sharon's badge and her ability to speak doctor to find out what had happened to James and where he was.

The waiting room for the emergency surgery room was empty except for Sam, who stood and hugged Sharon as soon as they arrived. He knew better than to try hugging Amanda, but she managed a grateful nod for the friendly pat and squeeze he gave her arm. Then the three of them took seats and waited.

Steve arrived about twenty minutes later and there was more hugging. He made an attempt to hug her but was stopped by Sharon and the look on Amanda's face.

The other three sat near each other, huddling to talk in soft voices. Amanda sat alone in the center of a two person couch across from them, listening but not talking.

"What happened?" Steve asked the room at large.

Sharon and Sam had already had this conversation, but Sam gamely went into it again. "I was finishing up the dishes from dinner when I heard - and felt - a bomb go off. I've heard that enough times to know what it is and how close it must have been. So I dropped what I was doing and headed for the door. Which was when the fire alarm went off."

Good to know that worked.

"The hallway was empty, but I could see smoke coming from the back stairs. I headed down them, but couldn't get to the first floor because of the flames. I yelled for Buck a few times because I knew he was in the basement working on things. He didn't answer and the fire was getting worse. So I turned around and grabbed my phone, called 911 and headed for the fire escape."

"The police at the scene said it looked like the fire started in the back stairwell between the basement and first floor," Sharon added. "If it was a bomb, that's probably where it was placed."

"It was a bomb," Sam said firmly.

Amanda was inclined to believe him. He had been to war and knew what he was talking about. It also explained how James could be injured enough to require the hospital and surgery. Just fire would burn him but he'd heal quickly and likely it would be superficial, even if he had to walk through it to get out of the building. A bomb - especially some sort of homemade dirty bomb - at close range, would cause significant damage, even to a super soldier. She would need to get in the house to see the crime scene before she could know more.

The door opened and a man in blood smeared scrubs, surgical cap still covering his head, stepped in. "You're here for Mr. Barnes?"

"Yes," Amanda said, all of them standing. "How is he?"

"Stable. He was very lucky, the explosion should have killed him. A shard of debris came very close to puncturing his heart and another near his left lung. We've removed those, and a few other projectiles, cleaned and stitched all the wounds. He did suffer some burns, but they're mostly superficial-"

He kept speaking, but Amanda tuned him out. She was sure he'd done his best, and certainly hadn't made anything worse. But he didn't know about the serum and apparently wasn't imaginative enough to be curious about how abnormal James's wounds were. There wasn't going to be anything interesting he could tell her.

"When can we see him?" she asked, interrupting his explanation.

"He's being moved to recovery and then ICU. Once they have a bed for him there, you can sit with him."

This time of night, on a Friday, that could take hours, if not until morning. "Did you save the debris you removed to give to the police?"

Now he looked affronted, finally. "Of course."

"Good." She gave a nod and brushed past him out of the room.

Sharon caught up with her at the elevator. "Where are you going?"

"Down to registration to see how much money it will cost to get him a private room, quickly." She would also need to make some calls and get someone to guard his door without drawing too much attention to themselves. The police would probably be calling soon and she would have to find a way to get into the building to find what they'd missed.

"Is there any way to make this a CIA matter?" she asked Sharon.

She blew out a breath. "Not officially, no. Unless we can find evidence it's a terrorist attack."

Possible, but highly unlikely. This was targeted, personal, not a warning or idealogical. And at the risk of working on a hunch, she was pretty sure this was targeted at _her_.

The elevator slid open and she stepped in, turning to hit the button for the first floor. Sharon reached out and held the door from closing. "Are you all right?" she asked Amanda, studying her face.

Such an odd, pointless question. "He's alive. I'm going to ensure he stays that way. And then I will make sure the person who did this does not. My current state isn't relative."

Sharon looked skeptical, then concerned. But finally she nodded and let go of the door. "Let me know how I can help."

*

Amanda suspected she wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight, or the next, depending on how the investigation went. It was fine, she needed much less sleep than a normal person, and didn't suffer from any symptoms of sleep deprivation until several days with no rest. In addition to bribing her way into a private room for James and arranging his security, she booked a floor of suites for their household at a nearby hotel and called Stark to tell him what had happened and that she wouldn't be at work for a few days.

"Of course," he said immediately. "You need anything?"

"I have everything under control for now, but I'll be in touch if that changes."

He hesitated a moment. "You're an odd duck, you know that Doc?"

Amanda arched a brow. The others were mostly used to her, but Stark still got a little surprised when he saw the emotionless side of her. It was likely a sign of their growing friendship that he was now comfortable mentioning it. "You're not the first to mention it, no."

They said their goodbyes and she went upstairs to the ICU where they were still getting James settled in his room. Sam, Steve, and Sharon were hovering in the hall and went on alert when they saw her.

"I have rooms arranged for everyone at the Condor Hotel," she told them. "The concierge has arranged for some clothes and toiletries for all of you to be waiting. You're welcome to go check in whenever you wish."

"What about you?" Steve asked. He looked a lot more suspicious than Sharon.

"I'm waiting here until the police call and update me. Then I plan to go to the brownstone and see what I can find."

"Are they going to let you do that? It's a crime scene isn't it?"

Amanda glanced briefly at Sharon, making eye contact long enough to express her exasperation at Steve's occasional naïveté. This was a man who would rob the Smithsonian for his old uniform, but couldn't imagine someone else sneaking into an active crime scene.

Sharon's expression indicated she agreed with the exasperation but found it sort of endearing.

"I'm not going to ask permission," Amanda told Steve. "I got into the interrogation basement of the JTT offices, I can get into a building I own being guarded by a couple of NYC uniforms."

He looked briefly embarrassed and she wondered if sometimes he forgot exactly who she was. Maybe she had been living this normal life for too long. "I can come with you. My eyes are pretty good."

Another person offering to help. That was three in the last two hours. Her skin prickled a bit with unexpected emotion. She didn't want people helping her. People got in her way and moved slower than she did. Before committing to James and settling in New York, she had arranged her life such that no one would dare offer help unsolicited. Logic would dictate that the current flood of offers should irritate her. More talking. More being polite.

She didn't think she felt irritated, though. She had no name for the emotion currently assailing her. She didn't think she'd felt it in a very long time.

"I'd like to go alone the first time," she said carefully, oddly reluctant to discourage him from offering again. He nodded in understanding and didn't look offended, so she seemed to have succeeded.

A nurse stepped out of the room they were clustered outside of and stopped short at seeing them all there. "He's still sleeping, but you can go in if you want."

ICU normally had rules about who and how many people could visit with a patient. When she'd been giving money to the hospital registrar, Amanda had made sure that would be relaxed, at least for now.

The four of them filed into the room. James was in a bed farthest from the door, several monitors strapped to him, swathed in bandages.

The others crowded around his bed by Amanda paused to pull his chart out of the wall hanger and scan over it. His injuries were extensive, mostly to his upper chest and face. Anyone without the serum would have been killed instantly. As it was, she thought he was still pretty lucky. Had the projectiles that struck his chest struck his head or throat he could have been decapitated, or lost brain function. The serum could fix just about anything but decapitation or massive blood loss. She wasn't sure if massive cerebral damage would be fatal, but it might be. It might also be permanently disabling.

James would heal. He would live. For all his lack of imagination, the ER surgeon had done a good job cleaning him up and preventing further damage.

She put the chart back and turned, finding Steve watching her. She gave him a little nod and attempted a smile. He smiled back and visibly relaxed, tension in his shoulders dropping.

He stepped aside, making room for her at the bedside. She stepped close, touching James's bandaged arm, warm under her cool fingers. There were burns on his jaw and forehead, leading down his neck and under the bandages on his chest. They already looked better than they'd been described in his intake on the chart and would probably look no worse than a sun burn in a day or two.

Cold rage filled her, tightening her chest and squeezing her heart. Someone had done this to him. Had made a bomb, left it in the stairwell for someone to find, and hoped to kill them. She had enough evidence to know that. What she didn't know was who had done it, or why. But she couldn't help but think it had been directed at her. Either they'd hoped she would find the bomb, or they knew what James meant to her and had gone after him to hurt her. She had no evidence for this, no logical chain of thought to convince her. But she couldn't help but think it was likely, and it only made the rage course harder.

In her pocket, her phone buzzed, probably the police with an update. She squeezed James's arm and leaned down to kiss a small unburned spot on his forehead. "Sleep well, _soldat_ ," she whispered against his skin, then turned and left the room, pulling the phone out to answer it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It is my business to know what other people do not know.”  
>  ― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle_

She ended up having to go back to the brownstone to speak to some of the detectives and inspectors in person. Fortunately, they hadn't done more than a minimal background check on her, probably stopping once they saw she worked with Stark, Mr. Privatized World Peace himself. As far as they knew she was a wealthy investor with a vague medical background who happened to be dating one of her tenants. Not the average love story, but probably not the weirdest story they'd heard on their job.

They had her go over the night's events three times, including what she knew of Steve and Sam's comings and goings. (She had been right about the former's trip to the art store.) Finally, once they were content she was telling the truth as best she knew it, they told her what they knew, most of which she'd already surmised.

It had been a homemade bomb, not tremendously elaborate, but probably not bomber's first. It had been in a wrapped package, probably in a paper bag, and had gone off when jostled, not on a timer. Hence why James was so badly injured, he'd literally been holding or leaning over the box when it exploded.

"Do you have anyone you can think of who would want to hurt you or your tenants?" the fire inspector asked. He sounded skeptical, even as he said it, as if he didn't really expect her to have any ideas.

The Doctor, as she had once been called, had had dozens of enemies. None of them knew who she really was, or that she lived here and was dating James. Most of them didn't know she wasn't running her organization anymore. Some probably thought she was already dead.

Amanda Newbury, head of Biomedical Research at Stark Industries had a few enemies, but none that would plant a bomb.

"I've made some pharmaceutical companies angry with my work," she said, feigning a semi-joking tone. "But they're more likely to sue Stark than kill me. As for the others, I don't know, does Captain America have any enemies?"

The inspector chuckled a little. "Possibly, but there's easier ways to go at him."

Personally, Amanda would go with a sniper a mile away while he was on his morning jog. Headshot, preferable. That or plant someone near him in a crowd and blow his chest open with a high caliber at closer range.

She had not shared these thoughts with James, because she had no intention of using them, but it was always a good idea to know how to kill someone so you could protect them from someone like you.

"He doesn't go down much in the basement, anyway," she offered. "He hits his head on the beams. And I'm sure James doesn't have any enemies. He keeps to himself. Same for Sam Wilson."

The inspector nodded and jotted some notes down. "Well, if anything comes up, or you get any sort of threatening calls or letters let us know right away."

"Of course," she said, aiming for gratitude and reassurance. "Thank you so much for your help. Is it safe to go into the building? Get some clothes or shampoo or anything?" She'd go in no matter what, but it was good to know if the roof was going to come down on her.

"Probably, but I want to do one more inspection in the morning to see it in full light. I'll give you a call once I'm done and you and your tenants can come pack a couple bags."

"The basement and back stairwell are considered a crime scene until further notice," the lead detective told her, tone verging on scolding. She quietly prickled at patronization but didn't let it show. "So you and the rest are going to have to stay somewhere else until we clear it."

Amanda gave him what she hoped wasn't a fake-looking smile. "Of course. We've already made other arrangements."

He nodded officiously, and it felt distinctly like a dismissal. She really didn't like him, but she'd try to ignore it for now. She could ruin his life later.

Taking the hint, she said goodnight to them both and left in a cab. She had it drop her off in front of a diner so she could get something to eat. It was around two am now. Sunrise would be at six thirty. She imagined the fire inspector would be there early, but not before breakfast, and would need to get sleep before doing anything. So she had plenty of time to fuel up and search the house at her leisure.  
She ordered a waffle and bacon and a pot of hot tea and checked her emails and news feed while she ate. The bombing had made the news, which meant there would be tragedy tourists at the brownstone not long after first light. That cramped her timeline a bit, but was still manageable.

Waiting for the check, her phone buzzed with a text message from Sharon.

_Steve made me go to the hotel. He's still at the hospital, I imagine he'll be there till Bucky wakes up. I can't sleep. Need help?_

Offers of help again. This was Sharon's second. She had to know Amanda would be breaking some laws looking into this herself. Tagging along would ruin any plausible deniability she'd have staying at the hotel. Not to mention the fact she really didn't need help. She used to plan far more advanced criminal plots than this for a living, she could sort this one out without a CIA agent holding her hand.

She couldn't explain why, but she replied to Sharon. _Meet me at the bodega down the street from the brownstone. I want to make sure the inspectors have cleared out before we go in._

_See you there._

Sharon was intelligent and sharp, an excellent agent. Amanda told herself that was why she wanted her to come along. A second set of eyes could only help, so it was a net positive to have Sharon there. Amanda might not have suggested she tag along, but if she was going to keep asking logic dictated it was simpler to just say yes.

That's what she told herself as she paid her bill and headed for the brownstone.

She jogged there, not wanting another cab ride on record. It was highly doubtful the police would look into her further for this, they had clearly written her off, but she hadn't gotten where she was in life by being sloppy.

Sharon was at the bodega when Amanda got there, which probably meant she'd already been on her way when she texted. "Bucky was still out last time I checked in with Steve," she greeted Amanda.

"I imagine he will be until well into the day. The more he sleeps, the faster he heals." Sharon had changed into jeans and a dark sweatshirt, probably from the clothes Amanda had arranged to show up at the hotel. She was far more outfitted to sneak around a burnt out crime scene than Amanda, who still had on heels and dress pants from their night out. Still, she'd done far worse things in a pair of heels.

"I took a peek," Sharon said. "The cop cars and trucks are gone. There's a lot of police tape but I didn't see anyone standing guard."

Amanda made a face. Not important enough for a guard, she supposed. She supposed the fire hadn't compromised the exterior walls enough to make it a looting risk, Still, the rich southern lady in her soul wanted to make a stink.

"We should go in through the back alley, into James's shop," she said, heading for the alley entrance. "That's where all the interesting stuff should be, anyway."

"Police and the bomb squad are going to have picked up anything interesting," Sharon offered, falling into step beside her.

"They'll have the recognizable pieces of the bomb, yes. But I doubt they picked up every scrap of paper and packing strewn around. And even if they did, they don't have my brain or my nose." It sounded like bragging and maybe it was. But it was also true. She was, perhaps, the greatest criminal mind in the world. She was confident that all she needed to do was look at the scene and she'd find something.

The large loading dock doors at the back of James's shop had police tape strung across them, but not attached to them. Amanda was easily able to reach underneath the yellow tape and unlock them so she and Sharon could duck under and head inside.

It was dark as pitch inside and the electricity had been turned off due to the fire. Sharon produced a flashlight from her pocket and Amanda pulled out her phone and they started taking a look around.

The front half of the room was more or less untouched, with James's half finished projects and equipment still intact. It was fortunate the flames hadn't reached that end of the basement, as she was sure his collection of varnishes and stains would have caused an inferno fierce enough to take the whole building down.

"Poor Bucky," Sharon murmured, touching a scorched rocking chair. It rocked back once but stopped abruptly, burnt wood no longer smoothly curved to rock. "He's going to have to redo so many of these."

"In the morning we should try to contact his clients," Amanda said, crouching to peer in the dead space under the back stairs. "Tell them things will be delayed and offer refunds."

"Does he keep a record of them somewhere?"

"In his computer. Once we're allowed to go in officially I can grab it. Come bring your light over, I want to get under there."

Sharon wandered over and crouched beside her, eyeing the under stairs skeptically. "You sure it's safe?"

"Less safe than the rest of it, but nothing I won't survive." She slipped off her shoes and jacket, setting her phone down on top of them. "If it comes down, grab our stuff and leave. I'll meet you at the hotel once I get out." Sharon looked skeptical about this, but nodded and Amanda eased her way between two burnt out studs and under the stairs.

It had been used as a kind of storage area, mostly for lumber and upholstery scraps. They had all burnt in the initial blast and fire, leaving ashy piles that had once been fabric bolts and messy piles of charred wood. The blast had taken out a few of the stairs above her. The inspectors had clearly checked out the stairs, but based on the undisturbed ash, she didn't think they'd been down here.

There was nothing obviously out of place. No hunks of metal or plastic that had to have come from the bomb. There were several scraps of burnt paper, backing up the inspector's claim it had been a wrapped package in a paper bag. Amanda crouched down and inspected them, picking up a few. Some disintegrated in her fingers, but a few were large enough to be handled and at least two had print on it that might be useful.

She poked around a bit more, looking for anything else of interest, then carefully made her way back to Sharon at the entrance of the hole.

"Find something?" she asked as Amanda straightened.

"Possibly." She grabbed her phone and walked to the nearest intact table, spreading the intact papers out and pulling up an app on the phone that let her enlarge things. Sharon came over to hold the light and together they peered at the papers.

There were several that were blank brown paper, clearly from a shopping bag of some sort. There was a slash of red on one that made her think it was probably a CVS bag, but she'd need good light to identify the particular red shade for certain. In any case, they didn't tell her anything. Millions of people shopped at CVS every day and there was hundreds of them in the New York area. It wouldn't tell her who had built and planted the bomb.

The other papers were more interesting as they seemed to come from newspapers. And one of them was large enough to show some writing and part of a picture. She moved Sharon's hand to angle the light differently and inspected it.

"It's from a Czech paper," she said after a moment. "The sports page, if I'm not mistaken. The picture is of a football player." She rummaged a moment, found three more pieces with Czech writing on them and lined them up. Two more were from the sports page, with more parts of the footballer's player. Someone had drawn a mustache and horns on the featured player, the star of the Sparta Prague team.

Blood roared in her ears and Amanda felt the chill take over again as she straightened and turned her phone off.

Sharon was watching her. "You know who it is."

Amanda had almost forgotten she was there. "Hmm?"

"Your face. I can tell. You know who planted the bomb."

No use denying it. And if she wasn't mistaken, in this particular instance, Sharon could be very useful. "I do. In fact, he's a former contract employee of mine. I stopped using him, since he had a hard time following the rules." She collected the papers and went over to get her shoes and jacket. "I need to make some calls and find out where he's hiding. Once I do. . . how would you like to arrest an international arms dealer?"


	4. Chapter 4

Pavel Moravec had a rap sheet in his native Czech Republic that started in his teens. Arson, assault, robbery, drug and firearm trafficking. It was a level of violence and disregard for the law that meant the police looked at you anytime someone in your neighborhood got a hangnail. It was the kind of attention that made it hard to move on in your career, if your career was being a criminal.

When Amanda had found him, he'd been running a low-stakes betting ring and chaffing at his current probation rules. She had laid out a generous hiring plan, and explained the rules he would need to follow in order to stay in her good graces.

_"No killing unless explicitly told. Extra curricular crime is accepted as long as it's not violent. If you're arrested for one of my crimes I will get you out. If you're arrested for one of yours, I've never met you or spoken to you."_

In return he'd gotten a new name and IDs, and a visa to move to England. He was not the first to get such a deal, or the last. She preferred to avoid men who did overt violence towards women - for personal and practical reasons - but Moravec's assaults had been bar brawls and revenge beatings, nothing sexual. So she'd taken a risk, hoping a regular pay check and some regulation would rein him in.

For three or four months he'd been a model employee. He was not the subtlest of her operatives, but there were times one needed a scalpel and times one needed a bone saw. A good doctor knew the difference and how to wield them well.

But it quickly became apparent he was not following the rules. He had his side businesses, mostly arms trafficking and illegal betting. Violence adjacent, perhaps, but not overt. Then he was arrested for beating and robbing a prostitute and that had been the end of it. She tracked down the prostitute, paid her legal fees and enrollment in a drug rehab program. Then informed Moravec - now going by Paul Moran - he was fired and would no longer be getting any of his benefits. He'd been furious, but impotent to do anything to her. And that had been the last she'd heard or thought of him.

Now, she was looking at him through a two-way mirror in a CIA interrogation room. He looked nervous but annoyed. She imagined he was trying to figure out what recent crime he'd committed that had landed him here. There was probably quite the list.

"That guy is responsible for half the gang wars in three countries, huh?" Sharon asked.

"Responsible is exaggerative," Amanda corrected. "But certainly he's kept them in business. I presume a search of his property was lucrative?"

"Oh yeah. I could start a small army with what he had at his farm." She inclined her head towards the mirror. "You think he's the one who set the bomb?"

"It was packed with Czech newspapers, with doodles indicating hate for the Sparta Prague football team. Pavel is a die-hard Slavia Prague football fan. He's also a self-taught expert in things that blow up or fire bullets. And we have a personal history. So either he set the bomb, or someone is setting it up to look like he did. Either way, he's going to know something."

Sharon glanced at her watch. "Well, you've got about seven minutes to get it out of him before ATF gets here and wants to have their own chat."

"Thank you," she said, heading for the door.

She had stopped at her hotel while Sharon was working to arrest Pavel. It had been long past time for a shower and change of clothes. She'd also taken out her glass eye and returned to her eye patch. Amanda Newbury wore the eye and carefully hid her scars with make up to fit in the world. The Doctor had no such desires. And she wanted Pavel to have no question as to who he was talking to.

He looked up when she entered the room and his eyes widened. The annoyance disappeared from his face and posture, leaving only raw nerves and something similar to panic.

"Hello Pavel," she said in Czech. It was rusty, but got the point across. "It's been a long time."

Pavel looked at the two-way mirror, then the camera in the upper corner. "What are you doing here?" he hissed. "You can't be here."

"I can be anywhere I want," she told him, taking a seat across from him. She put a small device on the table. "This is a handy little device that scrambles a video feed. A friend of mine is sitting watching, so no one will notice. We have five nice, long minutes to chat in private."

"We have nothing to discuss," he said, crossing his arms. "You care about weapons in Jersey now?"

"No. I care about a bomb in Brooklyn." She watched his face, letting the response sit there. He managed to keep stone faced all of thirty seconds. Then emotions started to seep in.

"I don't do bombs," he said. A dozen haptic signals showed he was a lying. "I just sell guns. I don't know anything about bombs."

She tilted her head. "You're lying, Pavel," she said, sounding disappointed. "I don't have time for lying. So I'm going to tell you what I think, and you're going to tell me how much I got right." He tightened his jaw, but nodded and she folded her hands on the table. "You built a pipe bomb filled with metal scraps and packed with a Czech newspaper, wrapped in drugstore paper in a CVS bag." His eyes got wider but he didn't otherwise react. "The bomb was designed to go off when jostled, so you set it on the back steps so it would be found when the man working in the basement went up to his apartment. How am I doing?"

"Sounds like something I might do." That was all the confession she was likely to get, so she pressed on.

"It sound like something you might do. But it doesn't sound like something you'd think up. You're an arm's dealer, you have certain contacts, but not the kind that would help you find me or where I lived. Also, if you wanted to hurt me or someone important to me, I think you'd just shoot me. A precisely placed bomb on a day when I happen to be out of the building is a bit above your pay grade. So, my one and only question for you is this: Who told you to do it?"

Pavel grit his teeth, nostrils flaring as he exhaled. "He'll kill me if I tell you."

"I will kill you if you don't tell me. And before I do, I'll tell your mother exactly where you are."

Pavel paled. As far as Amanda knew, the only person in the world he gave two shits about was his mother, who thought he'd gone straight working for an architecture firm years ago. It had been part of her new ID and cover for him and when she'd fired him she hadn't dismantled it, so his mother could continue to live with the lie. Based on the research she'd been able to do while tracking him down this morning, it had become clear his mother was still alive, living in an apartment in Prague, funded mostly by money Pavel sent home.

"If I tell you, can you get me out of here?"

"No," she said. Perhaps if she hadn't gotten Sharon involved, but it had been the most expedient option at the time. "But I can put in a word or two to make whatever punishment you get easier. And I can continue to send your mother funds. So she'll never know anything has changed." She spread her hands. "And who knows. Perhaps in federal prison you'll come across some information you can trade for getting out a bit quicker."

He seemed to consider that a moment. "I need a dummy email for Mum to send to. So she doesn't see the prison one."

"Done."

Pavel blew out a breath and rubbed his hands on his legs, handcuff chain rattling. "It was the Professor."

Ah. She's suspected as much, but she'd really hoped it would be something else. "You're certain?"

He nodded. "Came to me in person, told me what to do and to have it ready to go on short notice. He called me the morning of and told me to go set it up that evening. I didn't even know it was about you till you walked in here."

"Have you been doing much work for him?"

"On and off. Mostly he's a go-between for me and some clients."

Amanda let out a long, slow breath, finding her ice cold center. "I see." She stood, pocketing her scrambler. "Thank you. Good luck with the ATF."

"You'll do what you said? Take care of Mum."

"You have my word." No sense in shattering the calm of an old woman. Whatever decency there was in Pavel was almost certainly his mother's doing. "Monthly funds and a dummy email to route to your prison one. And I will keep you in mind if I find anyway to make your life easier."

He nodded and looked down at the table. Without another word, she let herself out of the room.

"Who's the Professor?" Sharon asked, waiting for her in the hallway.

"The cameras were scrambled?"

Sharon waved a hand. "Yes, it stuck on a still of him sitting there alone, glitched a few times while you were in there, then started back up."

"Good." She wouldn't be able to tell Stark how useful his tech was in a complicated revenge plan, but it was nice to know it was there.

"Who is the Professor?" Sharon asked again, following her towards the stairs. She really didn't want to be on the floor when ATF and Sharon's superiors showed up.

"An old employee," Amanda told her, since she clearly wasn't going to let this go.

"Jeez, how many homicidal old employees do you have?"

"There's no honor among thieves, Sharon. Even less among hired guns." She pushed through the door to the fire stairs and headed down. "Thank you for your help, but this part I'm going to need to go alone."

"Seriously? No way, I've got your back on this."

That was probably sweet. In other circumstances she would be pleased and touched by that. But this was not a group activity and every moment she spent explaining to Sharon was a moment she wasn't moving forward.

"He wasn't just an employee," she said, stopping on a landing to look back up at Sharon. "He was my second in command and the man I left in charge when I left. If he has now decided to come after me no one I know is safe until I deal with him."

Sharon pursed her lips, considering that. "If you know other things he's done I can get a warrant-"

"Nothing he's done will have any sort of evidence leading back to him. You can't arrest him any more than you could have arrested me when I was in charge."

"So what are you going to do?"

Amanda smiled slowly. "Have a little chat with him." She turned and started down the stairs again, relieved she didn't hear Sharons footsteps start back up. "If I'm not back by dawn, tell James I love him," she added, before pushing through the exit door on the bottom floor.

*

Her first stop was her office at Stark, to pick up some supplies. It was mid afternoon, but she managed to slip in without gaining the attention of anyone she knew.

She was surprised, therefore, to find Stark waiting for her in her office. Probably tipped off by the building AI. Working in an AI monitored building really cramped a criminal's style.

"Can I help you?" she asked pleasantly. She was still wearing her eye patch and saw his gaze flick to it briefly before he answered.

"Shouldn't you be sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair in a hospital room?" he asked, in a matching pleasant tone.

"Steve is on look out duty," she said honestly. "I was at loose ends and came to pick up some work to do."

"Any projects I might be familiar with?"

Amanda stifled a sigh. She didn't have time for this. And he had that look on his face that meant he knew something. Or thought he did. "What's this about, Stark.?"

"You're kind of an enigma, Doc, you know that? There's a record of you at Stanford Medical, and I've managed to find some pictures that confirm it's you, or an eerily close doppelgänger."

Concern pricked at her. She hadn't known he'd dug that deep. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

"No. But whatever you did in those years between is a big black question mark. I cannot find any record of you working at a hospital or clinic. You went from med school to my door and somehow lost an eye and made a few million dollars in the mean time and I have no idea how. Do you know how impressive that is? To hide your digital footprint so well I can't unearth it?"

She was starting to wonder if she needed to kill two people tonight. "Any particular reason you've been looking into my history?"

"Bomb goes off in the house of people I like, I start to poke around, see if I can figure out who might have done it. That means looking into people's pasts and figuring out who might want to kill them. Steve and Barnes and Sharon's pasts are open books. Yours is barely a post it."

This time she did sigh and headed to the back of her office where she kept her supplies. "There's nothing in my past that is relevant to my work with you," she told him.

Stark hopped up from his seat and prowled after her. "Is it relevant to the bomb that went off in your house?"

"Why do you want to know, Stark? So you can show up with your bright red and gold suit and pontificate about what happens when people hurt Iron Man's friends?" She paused in her perusing to look at him. "This isn't about you. You do not need to insert yourself into it."

He caught her arm when she tried to turn back to the row of bottles. "Look, my feelings on Barnes are complicated enough to write a Euripedes play on, but I consider you and Steve friends. Someone comes after you, it bothers me. This isn't ego, this is friendship."

Life had been tremendously easier when she'd isolated herself from everyone expect occasional visits with James, who had asked very little of her. She liked a challenge when it came to her work, but all these people trying to help her were unpredictable and complications she didn't need.

"Before you continue to push," she said slowly, picking up his hand to remove from it from her arm. "You might want to consider the kind of person who systematically erases her past so thoroughly even the great Tony Stark can't find it. And then ask yourself, does she really need you to defend her?"

They had a brief but intense staring contest, long enough she was sure she'd gotten her point across. Then she went back to her chemicals. She found the two bottles she wanted and pocketed them, rearranging others to hide the gaps.

"What are you going to do?" Stark asked as she headed for the door.

Amanda paused and turned back to him. "I'm going to avenge James. I would think you'd appreciate that. It's right there in your team name." He tipped his head back, lips thinning. But he didn't stop her. Didn't even say a word of warning. Because of that, or perhaps because hiding who she was was part of what had been making her so tired lately, she said, "If you really want to know who you're working with, do a search for The Doctor. I'm sure it'll be good reading."

She didn't wait for his reaction to that, she just left.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to me fellow Americans and happy late Thursday to everyone else. Had a vicious migraine all day but wanted to get this out for people to enjoy over leftovers and pie.

Charles A. Howell, a Princeton Economics professor, lived in an opulent mansion surrounded by sprawling lawn at the end of a dead end street in Bedminster Township, New Jersey. It was an enormous stone eyesore, with a front courtyard, conveniently outside of shouting distance of any of his neighbors.

When Amanda had run her empire she'd indulged herself in private planes and nice hotel rooms, because she hated flying and traveling and saw no reason not to be as comfortable as possible when she did it. She wore nice clothes and fancy shoes, because it was expected from people she met with. Otherwise, she didn't spend extravagantly. The only property she owned was the brownstone the others lived in.

Charles, when he had taken over the organization, had suddenly become a very wealthy man, virtually overnight. He had, in her opinion, gone a bit mad with it. He'd purchased this monster of a house, as well as a summer shore house in Ocean City. He had two fancy cars, every shiny electronics gadget one could imagine, and a cook and housekeeper to take care of him and his enormous house.

It was a waste of space for one man without much social life. But it was very convenient for an assassin hoping to sneak in.

Amanda drove down to New Jersey in one of the Stark motor pool cars, parking two streets over, on the other side of his massive land. She had waited until twilight, when people tended to be eating dinner or walking dogs, then slipped through two other impractically large yards to Charles's back door. It was unlocked, and lead into a butler's pantry. From there, she spent the next hour playing a game of hide and seek with his unsuspecting chef, before slipping out into the main part of the house.

Charles ate alone in his formal dining room, a lone figure at a table that could easily fit twelve. She imagined it stroked the part of his ego that fancied himself an aged regency hero. She could only imagine the things his cook told her friends about him when she went home for the day.

After serving him dessert, the cook cleaned the kitchen and headed out and then it was just the two of them.

Amanda settled in his den/office, in a plump leather chair that had likely never been sat in. It was a pretentious man's version of an office. Lots of leather and wood, a little wet bar tucked in one corner, and walls of books. There was a small section of economic and art history books that looked read, the rest of it she suspected was just for show. Volumes purchased at estate sales for their aesthetics, to fill out the shelves.

So much of Charles's life seemed to be performative, though she had no idea who he was performing for. Perhaps for himself. If he pretended to be a wealthy, well-read, dignified gentleman, eventually he would be. So he surrounded himself with the trappings he associated with the person he wanted to be and hoped osmosis would do the rest. Even in her cold, calm rage she could see the pathos in it. And had to admit, it felt oddly familiar.

She waited about half an hour before he came into the room. He beelined for the wet bar, already half way through pouring a drink before he noticed her there. When he did finally see her, his hands froze on the cut glass scotch bottle and he stared.

"Hello, Charles," she said, propping her chin on a gloved hand. "I can't imagine you're that surprised to see me."

"I had thought you'd be distracted a bit longer," he admitted, finishing his pour. "Care for a drink?"

"I imagine this conversation will go easier with lubrication," she replied. She waited for him to pour the second glass and took it when he handed it to her. He sat in the more well worn chair across from her and she continued, "We had an agreement. When I left and you took over. No killing, and leave a very specific group of people alone. Was it really so hard to keep to it?"

"No harder than it would have been for you to hold up your end of it."

Her brow lifted. "Not to meddle in your affairs? I haven't gone anywhere near your work. I putter with Stark and play at domestic life in Brooklyn - as you clearly figured out - what does any of it have to do with you."

"Stark has been scooping up drug trademarks and selling the product at under market price. That's against the interest of several of my clients."

"None of which were clients when I ran things." She was, at her heart, a doctor. She wouldn't work for big pharma corporations for all the money in the world. "I have made no secret about where I was going and what I was doing, if you took clients that conflicted with that, it's on you, not me." She finished by taking a very pointed swallow of her drink.

Charles sipped his drink. "Your attack of morals went against everything this business is about, I saw no reason to hold myself to them."

"You're telling me _my_ ethics are contrary to the business _I_ created?" she asked. "They never held me back from making more than enough money to keep everyone happy."

He shrugged noncommittally, taking another long drink. "You promised to stay out of the business. You don't get to tell me how to run it."

"And you don't get to send a Czech gun runner to blow up my building. The number of people alive that I care about can be counted on one hand, Charles. One of them is in the hospital, on your orders. How do you think that makes me feel?"

"I was under the impression you didn't feel anything."

"Mmm. You're an economics professor, so I'll phrase this in a way you'll understand. Basic rule of commerce: the rarer something is, the more precious it is. You tried to take something precious from me. And you've turned the empire I built into just another shady, black market wet works. I clearly erred when I put you in charge and need to do something about it." She leaned forward, elbows braced on the arms of the chair, glass loose in her fingers. "And I think that's really what this was about. Not my work with Stark or whatever threat you felt there. You knew you were running this poorly, using methods I would disagree with, and you wanted me to be too dead or distracted to notice. But, because you are better with numbers than people, you misjudged my reactions. And now here we are."

He didn't answer immediately, finishing his drink. "For what it's worth, I had hoped to kill you, but you proved difficult to plan for. Your boy toy was an easier target."

Her mouth thinned out in a line. "You had to know I'd find you."

"As I said, I expected you to be distracted longer. Distracted people are easier to dispose of."

Perhaps she might have stayed by James's side longer, if Steve and Sam and Sharon weren't there to help her. But that, she supposed, was the joy of having people. A support network. To fill in the jobs that needed doing so she could focus on other things. "You miscalculated," she told him.

"Clearly." He sighed, leaning back in his chair and coughing slightly. "I suppose this is where you tell me you're going to kill me?" He managed to sound bored when he said it, as if he thought he would survive whatever plan she had for him.

Amanda smiled, showing teeth, which threw him off. "Don't be silly, Charles. I killed you an hour ago when I put poison in your scotch bottle."

His eyes widened and he looked at the empty glass in his hand. He coughed again and this time blood came up. "Wh- you drank it too."

Considering the serum running through her veins, the list of poisons she could survive was lengthy. Still, she'd taken precautions so she wouldn't be incapacitated. "I used distilled snake venom. Harmless when drunk, the acids in your stomach break it down into inert proteins. Unless you have abrasions in you mouth and throat from the chemical irritant I slipped into your food." She tilted her head. "Panna cotta was a bit more sour than usual, hmmm?"

He didn't respond, choking and lurching forward in his chair.

"Neurotoxin," she said. "It's shutting down your respiratory system. In the next twenty minutes you'll stop being able to breathe effectively, which will induce cardiac arrest. I could go into how it does it, blocking the acetylcholine at the postsynaptic membranes, but you never much cared for my doctor talk, did you?" He fell onto the floor, clawing at his throat like he could dislodge something.

She stood gracefully and went to the wet bar, carefully washing out the glass she'd used and setting it down in the ring of dust it clearly belonged to. "I imagine someone will find you in the morning. Your cook or housekeeper. Maybe a concerned colleague. They'll be forced to assume you killed yourself, though it's possible someone will question why you'd do it in such a painful way. That is, if someone thinks to look for black mamba venom in your tox screen. It's not exactly standard operating procedure." She went back to stand over him. "You're a touch young for a heart attack, so they might get inventive."

He was looking at her, so he was probably still conscious. It wouldn't last long, based on his chest movements he was getting close to passing out from hypoxia. She crouched down. "You could have left me alone. I wanted nothing more to do with you and the world I left. But you had to feel like you'd won, didn't you? It must have grated on you every day, knowing you were only where you were because I'd handed it to you. Pride goeth before the fall, Charles. Did they not teach you that in economics school?"

Whatever he might have said in response was lost in another round of choking, pink tinted foam forming on his lips. Amanda straightened, waiting for his eyes to roll back into unconsciousness. Then she went to his desk and opened his laptop.

When she had run her empire she had kept everything in her head, or in a small leather bound journal that was always with her. Writing things down might seem foolhardy, but with the world becoming more and more digital, computers seemed like a big open door sometimes. Charles, not having a super soldier memory or any amount of sense, had everything on his laptop. At least he hadn't backed it up on the cloud. Had she found that, she might have had to revive him to kill him again.

She couldn't erase everything, it would look suspicious to investigators doing data retrieval. She went through carefully, found clients and assets she would want to keep and moved the information to a thumb drive before deleting and purging their information. She left the violent contractors, the corrupt politicians, and underhanded business practices. There would be plenty for the Bedminster police to go through and likely several suspects for them to dig into if they did suspect foul play.

It wasn't the perfect crime. She'd only had a few hours to plan it out. But it had done the job and wouldn't point back at her, which was all she required. She had no qualms about Charles becoming a cold case statistic.

Wiping the computer took a couple hours, to be thorough, but it was still far too early in the night to sneak out. She couldn't risk anyone seeing her silhouette in the den curtains, so she retreated to the dark back of the house and waited, crouched in the butler's pantry, until one in the morning, before feeling safe to slip out.

She cut back across the lawns, to her car, slipped in and drove back to New York City.

*

Steve was sitting in the guest chair in James's room when she got there. Her operative was in a chair down the hall, reading a magazine. They'd nodded to each other as she passed. She expected Steve to be dozing, but surprisingly, he had a Kindle and was reading, face barely illuminated by the dim light.

He looked up when she entered, took in her dark jeans and sweater, eye patch, tight braid, and soft ballet flats. He gave a little nod, mostly to himself, and said, "Is it done?"

"Yes," she said, glad there wasn't going to be awkward questions. "He suffered."

Steve nodded and closed the case on the Kindle. "Why?"

"To get back at me," she said, moving to stand on James's other side. "To distract me so he could take me out next." She glanced over at Steve. "Men. And their egos."

The corner of his mouth turned up. He nodded to James. "He woke up for a little while. Whatever pain killers they have him on must be pretty good. He ate, complained about all the wasted work on the furniture that was burned, then went back to sleep."

"So he's fine, then."

"Same old Buck," he confirmed.

Amanda smiled and touched James's arm. He was always so much warmer than her. She had thought it was an effect of the serum, but her dosage hadn't bridged the gap to any noticeable degree. If anything, it had gotten worse. She had always run cold, a bit of a novelty in any medical class that had required taking their temperatures. Erskine had said the serum magnified what was there. It was funny the ways it manifested.

"I will need to do some work," she told Steve. "Some of the work I used to do. I covered tracks as best I can. But Charles's death will cause ripples and without someone watching it could turn into chaos."

"Are you going to leave again?" Steve asked, watching her intently.

She hesitated. "I don't have to. It's nothing that can't be done from a hotel room. But you all might be safer if I'm gone."

He studied her another moment, then looked at James. "He was involved with you a long time before you went legit. I don't recall being in any danger that whole time." He met her eyes again. "He trusts you. I trust you. I think Sharon trusts you, by now. You're family. You do what you need to. We'll handle the rest."

That, finally, shattered the cold. Her throat suddenly felt thick and her eyes burned. She didn't trust herself to answer, so she just nodded, still holding James's arm.

Embarrassingly, Steve seemed to see right through her, coming around the bed to hug her. She let him, for several minutes. He was big and strong and an excellent hugger. Then she gave him a pat and he took the hint, stepping back.

"That never happened," she informed him, pulling a tissue out of the box on the night stand.

"Understood," Steve replied, smirking a little.


	6. Chapter 6

James woke again when the nurse came to take his vitals in the morning. He initially looked grumpy at the disturbance, but smiled when he saw her and Steve. "You two getting along?"

"Only one death threat," Steve told him, with a USO grin. "How are you feeling?"

"Well, it beats falling off a train."

"Our group does not have normal pain references," Amanda commented, holding his hand.

Steve looked at her. "What's yours?"

She considered a moment. "Stabbed in the gut."

"Yeah, we're not normal."

James tugged her hand. "When do I get out of here?"

She smiled. "That's not actually up to me. But you're healing well, so I imagine tomorrow is a reasonable expectation."

This earned her another grumpy face, which made Steve chuckle and get to his feet. "I've had enough Bucky pouting at a girl to last me a life time. I'm going to head to the hotel and get a shower." He paused to squeeze James's arm and pat her shoulder on his way out.

James watched him go, then looked over at her. "You two really okay?"

"I believe we came to some sort of agreement last night. I don't give his pragmatism enough credit."

He didn't ask what that meant, seeming to be content to know they were getting along. "You figure out who did this?"

"I did," she said, now curling both hands around his. "It was the man I left in charge of my organization. He's dead now."

He chuckled a little, closing his eyes briefly. "Trying to piss you off?"

"More or less." She pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "I need to do some work. To clean up the mess his made. I was planning to leave for a while to do it. . . but Steve suggested I stay." James opened his eyes and looked at her. "He says I'm family."

He seemed to relax as if a long held tension had released. "You are. You belong with us. And our weird, fucked up little group."

She had to smile at the fierceness in his voice. She was suddenly quite sure if she tried to go he and the others would simply track her down and bring her back. That was a rare and precious thing in itself. She'd be a fool to ruin it. And she was anything but a fool.

This probably wasn't the best time to bring this up, but she needed to get it out now before she lost her nerve. "I love you. I love being with you and the life we have carved out. But, god James, I am so bored."

He nodded, sighing, and she wondered if he'd been expecting something like this. "I knew something was wrong. I knew it was more than just a little bit of a rut."

"I tried, with all I had, to be a normal business woman. Meetings and investment portfolios and home for supper. It's not who I am. I need to find a way to be with you and do what I'm good at. What makes me happy."

He squeezed her hand, quiet a moment. "Can you do that in a brownstone in Brooklyn?"

She smiled. "I will make sure I can."

"Then we figure the rest out as it comes." He met her gaze. "I love you. I don't want to make you someone you aren't. Someone miserable. It wasn't fair to make you try."

Amanda leaned up and kissed him and he tugged her into his side. She grumbled a little about his bandages, but arranged herself in the bed next to him. He stroked her hair and pressed a kiss into her temple. "I was worried about you," she admitted quietly.

"Eh. Takes more than that to get rid of me. I'm the Winter Soldier, you know."

"I know, _soldat_ , I know."

*

By the weekend, James was out of the hospital, the police had released the brownstone to her as "no longer an active crime scene." They were no closer to figuring out who had set the bomb, and she doubted they ever would. She certainly wasn't going to turn in Pavel and they didn't have the information that would link Czech newspapers to a guns dealer that might wish her harm.

New Jersey police were just as stumped regarding the death of a Princeton professor found dead in his study. The house had been locked up tight, with no signs of forced entry or even a visitor he knew having been in the house. The coroner had declared it death by cardiac arrest, though he was young, with no family history of heart disease. Perhaps most puzzling, the investigating detectives had found evidence of connections to organized crime and black market operatives on his computer and person files. Arrests were being made, based on the information found -

"- but so far none of them have led to a good murder suspect," the local news anchor concluded. "We'll continue to update as we know more."

"You proud of yourself?" Sharon asked, handing Amanda her tea mug. The four of them were hanging out in Amanda and James's suite while she worked and he went over plans for the brownstone reno. He and Steve were having a friendly debate about some updates he wanted to do.

Amanda took the tea and blew on it, taking a sip before setting it down. "In a decade, when it's on Unsolved Mysteries, then I'll be proud."

Sharon shook her head, settling in the chair near her. "I just hope my office doesn't get involved. Even my poker face isn't that good."

"I could cause some other crime to involve you, if it comes to that," she offered, going back to her transcription.

"I can't believe you keep everything in a notebook," Steve said, apparently surfacing from the most recent debate. Before she could respond there was a knock at the hallway door. She was immediately on alert.

"It's a journal," James corrected, leaning over to kiss her cheek as he stood. "Calm down, _vrach_ , I can smell Stark's cologne from here."

The fact it was Stark didn't actually reassure her, but she stopped holding her pen like a weapon.

Tony Stark strolled in the suite ahead of James, looking like he owned the place. He gave a nod to Steve, then pointed at her. "You've been holding out on me."

"Finish your background check, have you?" She hadn't heard a word from him since the conversation in her office. "Here to arrest the criminal mastermind?" she added, holding out her wrists like he might slap handcuffs on her. On either side of her, Steve and Sharon tensed, as if this might come down to some sort of brawl.

"Hell no, I'm here to hire you."

That was. . . unexpected. She didn't remember the last time she'd actually been surprised. "I already work for you."

He waved a hand and took a seat without being offered. "Not the medical stuff. I mean, I still want your input on that. I've found I take great delight in fucking over pharmaceutical CEOs. No, I want your brainpower for a pet project of mine."

The other three were all exchanging perplexed expressions. Amanda's brain, fortunately, had caught up. "I don't know much about mechanical engineering, but if you hum a few bars. . ."

In response, Stark pulled out his phone, tapped some stuff and sent a video to the large TV. In it, a teenager in a clearly homemade red and blue suit was thwarting a purse snatching, bouncing off walls and landing in a way the indicated he was clearly super human.

Amanda watched a moment, then made a gesture indicating he should rewind. He did and she studied it further. "Teenager. Obviously a genius, the web shooters are homemade, not organic." She tilted her head and listened to the thief's voice. "Queens?"

Stark was grinning. "Got it in one, Doc." He pulled down the video and tucked his phone away. "Meta humans are popping up all over the place. Not to mention non-supered vigilantes with potential. With the Accords in place, they're all technically international criminals if they get caught. Unless we find them first and offer them a job, and protection. I need to be able to track down people like Queens here _before_ they become YouTube stars. Your rap sheet indicates that might be a skill of yours."

Fascinating. It would be the ultimate pattern recognition project. Finding unusual news stories or police blotter notes. Compile them into patterns that indicated a particular kind of power. There'd be false positives of course, but she could filter for those fairly easily. And then actually _finding_ the people responsible.

She flipped her notebook to a blank page and twirled her pen, smiling at Stark. "Let's discuss my fee."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I greatly enjoyed this sequel, even if it did take me 2 years to finish it. I hope to someday visit this Amanda again, but I'll have to have a good idea to do so. Thanks for reading and commenting, you guys have helped get me through a rough time.


End file.
